Plotbunny Farm
by rhead-a-holyc
Summary: Just a place where I'm going to leave my multichapter ideas that I have a plot for but will deal with eventually. Currently: Bellatrix never goes after the Longbottoms, rather, she leads the Death Eaters in the Dark Lord's stead.
1. Imprisoned

Hermione's eyes floated down to rest on the shadows that encompassed the majority of her cell – something that looked only marginally better than a dungeon, if Hermione were to be honest – shivers wracking through her body as a dementor passed by her gate. When Hermione had first been sent to Azkaban, she hadn't thought that her sanity would remain for as long as it had – that was what the books vehemently argued, at least – but it had already been a year and, while many of her happiest memories had fled, her sanity had remained behind.

Although, that didn't mean that her mind was the same as it had been when she had first arrived. In an effort to protect itself it had layered itself, and none of her emotions were easily accessible any more – they all felt somewhat muted, something that had stopped the dementors from visiting her as often as they did before.

And, from Harry's reaction whenever he came to visit her with promises of getting her out, told Hermione that the changes were visible, although they didn't seem to bother Harry too much – other than the odd question of whether or not the dementors still bothered her.

Ron hadn't come to visit, but Hermione couldn't really say that she was awfully surprised. The Weasleys were a notoriously Light family, and she had killed someone with her magic – using an Unforgiveable, nevertheless. They couldn't be seen with someone that was considered to be Dark like she was, despite being a muggleborn. Harry probably shouldn't either, but Harry had never cared for things like that – something that Hermione was glad for now.

"My, my, who would have thought the goody Granger would end up here?"

It wasn't Harry, Hermione knew that he would never mock her like that, but that voice was familiar – if only by the gloating lilt to it. There was only one person who would actually bother to come to see her suffering, and only one Slytherin who had access to enough power to allow him to travel her for nothing more than a visit.

"Come here to watch my suffering, Malfoy?" Hermione said raising an eyebrow. "I admit, you are the first, though. Perhaps I should give you a medal for that… although I'm quite short of medals at the moment."

"I'm quite fine without one. Although you may want to give the little Weasel a medal for everything he's sprouting…" Draco drawled, handing a piece of paper to Granger. "I'm actually surprised Potter hasn't cursed him yet. Potter looks like he's on the verge of it every time Weasel opens his mouth!"

"I fail to see why you're so concerned for Ronald's well-being," Hermione said absently, her eyes flying over the untidy scrawl that she knew was Harry's.

It had been Hermione that had warned Harry that it would be too suspicious to break her out while he was there, and Harry had, somehow, enlisted the help of Malfoy. Hermione didn't think that Malfoy would have half-cared to help, but apparently things had changed in the last year. Hermione doubted she would recognise the dynamics in Hogwarts if she ever returned.

"Look around you, what do you see? It's all pretend. It's all made up. You own nothing. Nothing except sorrows and bars and rusty metal staircases. You'll never live, because outside you don't exist. No one will remember you. No one," Draco said suddenly, eyes burning fiercely bright.

"And they wouldn't need to," Hermione replied immediately, a half-smile on her lips as her brown eyes met Malfoy's silvery ones.

"You'll die in here, Hermione Granger."

So that was the plan, then. Hermione couldn't say that she disapproved as her cell gate swung opened with Draco walking in moments later. As he moved closer, Hermione could see the beads of sweat that clung to Draco's skin at his strained use of magic.

Simultaneously, Hermione was covered in what she was certain was Harry's invisibility cloak, and another her landed harshly on the bed that she had occupied earlier. Whoever it was breathed harshly, choking on themselves every few minutes, and Hermione only pitied that person for their painful death. The necklace that she wore was left on the other person – ensuring that her magical signature would register on the foreign body.

Hermione knew she was being more than a little selfish, but she wanted to survive and that was exactly what she was going to do. The person who replaced her was on the verge of death anyway.

Hermione Granger would die in Azkaban, but she wasn't no longer her. She wasn't that blindly trusting Gryffindor, and she wouldn't be again.

 **Written for Fanfiction World Adventures Competition: Kilmainham Gaol [any wizarding prizon; dungeon; suffering; someone underage being imprisoned; dialogue]**

 **Written for Ultimate Battle Competition – Winter Tuque**


	2. Flower of Peace, Flower of Freedom

_Poppy: peace, sleep, death_

It had all begun with a poppy the colour of blood. Or that was where Harry was able to pinpoint the beginning.

Harry didn't know where it came from, but the preservation charm on the single flower told him that someone had left it there intentionally. Whether it was intended for him or not, Harry didn't quite know, but he took the flower with him anyway. He slipped it into one of the textbooks Hermione had insisted he borrow because 'she wasn't going to be helping him with homework anymore'.

It was difficult to believe her. It had been nearly six years since they had become friends, and Hermione had never been able to resist helping them and explaining in excruciating detail why each section of whatever he or Ron _had been_ able to do, was completely wrong. While Harry didn't begrudge her for that, Merlin knew _Ron_ got annoyed enough, it did get tiring after a while.

Especially with Umbridge able and willing to give him a detention for _breathing_ , and the Daily Prophet eager to claw at him with their lies. It was worse that people he had lived in the same castle with for the past six years believed the Daily Prophet over what they had seen for themselves.

It truly was pathetic; not at all different from the Muggle world he had grown up in, with the lies of Privet Drive giving him a history that was more fiction than it was truth. Harry had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that things would have been different in this new world.

But humans are humans, magic or no. They all thrived on exaggerated rumours, and anything that wasn't plain and normal; not caring about the person the rumours were rooted on. Harry was tired of it, tired of the people he was supposed to 'save'. The only thing they had to be saved _from_ was themselves; there was no need to them to pile their hopes on a boy, who admittedly barely knew anything about the Wizarding world beyond Diagon Alley and Hogwarts.

If Harry really thought about it, and he rarely did, even Hogwarts barely taught them anything. All he really knew were a couple of useless charms and spells that would never help anything in reality; he knew the rivalries between the Houses and families, but what use was that when he didn't know friend or foe to the Potter family? He couldn't even say that he was properly a part of the Gryffindor House, considering their rivals were Slytherin and that had been the Sorting Hat's preferred option!

Hermione wanted to do something about Umbridge's teaching methods, or lack thereof, but Harry didn't understand why. If everyone failed the DADA practical at the end of the year, surely that would point out how terrible a teacher she really was, and would the Ministry _really_ allow an entire year to fail the practical portion of their OWL exams with one of their own employees teaching the course? Harry doubted it, so they really didn't have to do anything—Umbridge would sort herself out.

Harry and Ron had left Hermione in the bookstore; Harry tired of listening to her argument, and Ron wanting some peace for a little while. Harry had then ditched Ron with Fred and George, who were eager to drag their brother into the backroom to test some of their products. Harry was extremely glad to avoid _that_.

Besides, Harry just wanted to think: about boy Tom Riddle had once been, about his own inabilities and lack of knowledge, about everything he was supposedly fighting for, and that curious red poppy that seemed to follow him around. None of it made sense. Knowing as little as he did, none of it seemed like his fight. What would he be defeating Voldemort for? Revenge for his parents' death? For Sirius' death? Cedric's?

Cedric's death rested on him. If he hadn't insisted that they both take the cup, Cedric would still be alive. Had he not fallen for Voldemort's trick, Sirius would still be alive. And his parents… Harry would like to think that they knew what they were getting themselves into when staying in the United Kingdom. They could have gone anywhere in the world, and they could have trusted anyone but Wormtail.

In the end, Harry could accept that it was war, as cliché as that sounded. People died during war, and though the bitterness still lingered, he could understand it. The prophecy implied that he would be the one to 'defeat' Voldemort, and that kind of thing tended to paint a frighteningly large target on anyone's back.

Perhaps it was just the feeling of being overwhelmed that was making him feel this way; that was allowing the doubt in everyone he had trusted to creep in and slowly smother him. There were so many things that people insisted that he _must_ do that Harry wondered what would happen after. After he defeated Voldemort, after the wizarding world was left to its twisted version of peace, after everything had settled down; because Harry doubted that they would be happy with just that.

Would defeating someone even Dumbledore couldn't best mean that he would be a hero? Or would that make him someone to be feared, and eventually 'defeated' himself—perhaps exiled for any small fault that was exaggerated by the fact that he was magically powerful? Harry could believe that was a possible end result, and that didn't make his resolve to actually fight any stronger.

And, in the end, who would actually miss him? Ron would finally get the spotlight he had always dreamed of; Hermione would lose herself in her books again, and they would all move on. The Wizarding World would call him a couple names, studiously ignore Voldemort's presence, until Voldemort's presence was undeniable and they started looking for someone to hide behind again.

So, when Harry wandered away from Hogsmeade, he didn't think much of it; only that he wasn't going back to Hogwarts, and Hedwig would find him wherever he ended up going. Harry didn't even know that much yet, only that he had to leave; he needed a break from all this drama and pressure.

If everyone else was given the opportunity to be unpressured and enjoy life, then so could he; and if that meant that he would have to leave the only place that he had ever been able to call home, so be it. Everyone had to leave home at some point, and this wouldn't be any different from that.

 **Written for**

 **Wizarding D &D: poppy**

 **YouTubers Quotes Challenge: I have no idea why I'm doing the things I'm doing.**


	3. Defeat is Temporary

Her heels dug into the blood-matted ground and the frayed ends of her robe whipped around her as she drank in the sound of screams that caressed her ears. It was art, Bellatrix decided, watching as Muggles ran for the lives they would never be able to save. They would all be dead by the end of the night. Their grovelling and begging meant nothing to her; it was all worthless, as they would soon find out. She wanted no survivors, just as her Lord had always ordered.

She had ordered his wand to be retrieved from the Ministry days after her Lord's disappearance, because it was only a disappearance. He had assured them of his immortality, so it was simply a matter of time before he returned to them, to her. Bellatrix would proudly lead his troops until then, wreaking the havoc and inciting the fear her Lord always had.

The Mudbloods and Blood-Traitors would not have peace for what they had done. They didn't deserve peace. They deserved pain and suffering, and that was exactly what she was going to give to them. The muggles were simply the start, the little itch on the side of the Dumbledore and his Order. They had celebrated the momentary relief, before she had ensured they didn't forget.

They would get the Potter boy eventually. Her Lord had personally gone to see the boy, so he must have been important somehow; her Lord had a plan for the boy, and she would ensure that the boy was ready and willing to aid her Lord with whatever task he had in mind. There was nowhere in this world that the Order would be able to hide the boy; neither the Wizarding World, nor the disgusting muggle world would be safe from their search.

It would be much less effort for Dumbledore to simply give them the boy, but it would also be much more fun to have a hunt for him. The path of destruction they would leave behind made Bellatrix feel giddy at the very idea of it. There would be many little villages like this one, thousands more screams, and sobs, and _terror_.

Four years had passed, after all, and the trepidation that had filled their world left her proud of her actions. Nary a Mudblood dare venture Diagon Alley, not without one of Dumbledore's lapdogs keeping a keen eye on them, wand nearly drawn at all seconds. Bellatrix cackled at the memory of it. They were all so scared, and their fear was so strong it was something like sustenance to her.

"Bella. We found him."

"In this muggle hovel?" Bellatrix screamed, eyes returning to the previously disgustingly-perfect muggle neighbourhood. "Let me see the boy!"

Grasping the shoulders of the boy tightly, she looked into wide green eyes. Bellatrix cast her mind back for a moment, certain that the magic around the boy felt familiar. Her eyes shot to the boy's forehead, there was no mistaking who he was, and that magic, she recognised it now, it felt similar to the magical cup her Lord had asked her to protect only years ago.

Smiling, pleased with herself for coming to the correct conclusion, Bellatrix ruffled the boy's hair. "You don't need to return to those vermin anymore. We'll take you far, far away from them. Bella's going to protect and teach you, okay? Right after we get you out of these horrendous rags."

Her nose scrunched as she really took a notice of what he was wearing. "Bring the muggles with us. They deserve something more _special_ than an immediate death for treating the precious child as they had. I'm certain they've treated him terribly, the animals."

Bellatrix apparated out with a sharp crack, knowing that the rest of the Death Eaters would finish up and return to the Manor when they were bored, or if there was no one left to play with. There was a little boy she needed to take care of, and remove all evidence of his stay with those foul muggles.

"Harry is such a plebeian name. I think I'll call you 'Harrison', okay? Far more fitting a name for a wizard, especially an Heir like you are, than 'Harry'. Probably the decision of your Mudblood mother." Bellatrix didn't bother waiting for the boy's answer. If he disagreed, it was simply because he didn't know any better. The poor boy.

"Dippy! Draw the poor boy a bath, would you? And find him some fitting clothes, otherwise, go buy some!" Bellatrix demanded of the trembling house elf. He popped away seconds later, and Bellatrix grasped the boy's hand again, more gently this time, as she led him up the stairs to his new room. She was certain that he would like it. She'd have Cissy bring Draco over soon, after she started teaching Harrison everything he should have already been taught.

It simply wouldn't do for the boy marked by her Lord to be seen to be lacking in anyway, or to be looked down upon by prissy Lucius. No, Harrison would have to be trained by her, and the best they could find to surpass the training of all other Pureblood children. If anyone stood above the rest, it would be Harrison, as her Lord's favoured child and her newly appointed ward. Bellatrix wouldn't allow him to be anything less than the best.

"Harrison, Dippy will help you bathe and bring you clothes afterwards. Wear them, then you will be led to the dining room for dinner."

…xXx…

He stood beside her as an equal, yet he surpassed her in many ways—as was expected of the boy her Lord had chosen. His eyes were alight with the reflection of the flames of the burning house before him, and further incited by his own desire to watch them be destroyed.

Overwhelming pride washed over her every time she lay her eyes on her ward. He had grown from that weed of a boy into a confident boy whose words were influenced by the magical power he held. He was ten, now, nearing eleven, and Hogwarts was very nearly theirs already. Dumbledore's meagre number of fighters had weakened over the years with only those who truly had nothing to lose joining his Order. In fact, Bellatrix had heard of more people dropping _out_ of his Order than joining.

Harrison reminded her more of her Lord with every day, and she was certain that Hogwarts would be nothing more than his playground. They had already decided that he would enter the castle under the name 'Harry Potter', even though he hadn't responded to that name in years. It had been Harrison's plan to draw out their hope, rising it to pitiable levels, before crushing it, and them, in ways they had never been crushed before. Bellatrix simply couldn't wait for the day the light faded from Dumbledore's eyes, and all hope left the pocket of resistance that remained.

The Dark Lord would be returning soon, and both Harrison and Bellatrix would be there to welcome him with the world they had conquered. A world that would be entirely his to recreate as he pleased.

It would be the world she had dreamed of when she was younger; a world where she wouldn't need to hide her magic from those disgusting muggles who saw themselves as superior, yet lived in a constant fear of the unknown. No, they would all be destroyed long before they had time to recuperate. They would cease to exist, taking all their filth with them, before they even thought to fight back.

If she didn't ensure that, she knew that Harrison would, under the Dark Lord's orders. Their Lord was far more brilliant, and would see the options they had never considered. _He_ would be the only one who could put the finishing touches on their perfect world.

And Harrison had already begun the plans to bring him back.

* * *

 **Written for**

 **The Very AU Challenge:** **After Defeat AU**


	4. Azkaban's Hope

It was frigidly cold, and filled with everything Harry would much rather have forgotten.

The bodiless guards floated nearby, their icy reaches clawing deep into every cell. Harry tried his best to shut out the moans and pained cries around him, while the horror of his own immortality threatened to overwhelm him. The Dementors couldn't produce more of a negative emotion than the reality created by Voldemort already had. He would live as long as, or perhaps even longer since no one knew the details of a human Horcrux, than Voldemort - and that meant that he would never see his family. He would never meet his parents: the fiery Lily, and the prankster James; and he would never see Sirius or Remus again, either.

He'd thought losing to Voldemort would mean death. It hadn't. It meant being tossed into Azkaban when he continued fighting for everything he knew, because Voldemort had already sensed what Dumbledore had long since known - the Horcrux that lay within him was yet another of his ties to the living world, and not something Voldemort would sacrifice, even for a brat that attempted to threaten his existence whenever possible.

The Dark Lord, or perhaps he was now the Dark Overlord, and sent him to a cell, and ordered the Dementors not to feast on his soul - even if they did torture him. Harry wondered if Voldemort knew that existing in this cell, untouched by the Dementors yet able to hear the cries of his friends that had already had their souls removed, was more torturous than being forced to stand by Voldemort's side as he tortured and killed the remnants of the Order.

Harry very much preferred that helplessness, and occasional torture when Harry managed to attempt to stop him, because it meant that he could be fighting the entire way; that he was doing something that meant that the resistance was still alive. He could do nothing here.

His voice didn't reach into any of their nightmares. Reassurances didn't help while being trapped in a loop of your deepest fears. Harry didn't know if the rest of the prisoners heard him or not, but they never replied, and all Harry could do was pray that there was never a day when all of Azkaban turned silent.

It was a little selfish, perhaps, to not want to be alone and surrounded by the Dementors; to make sure the Dementors' full concentration wasn't on him, rather spread out over several people. Ron had already been taken away, muttering incoherently under his breath about spiders and butterflies. Harry knew that didn't mean well for his best friend. The most of the Weasley family had been ambushed at the Burrow while the trio had been out hunting Horcruxes. Bill and Fleur had survived, and gone into hiding at Shell Cottage; the last of what had been the large Weasley family.

Hermione was still somewhere in the depths of Azkaban. He hadn't seen or heard anything from her, but if they hadn't dragged her out yet, it meant that she still had her soul and was at least partially sane. That was all the hope Harry had left.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **The Golden Snitch [Uagadou, Biloko] – Tasmanian Time – Convicts: Write a story set in Azkaban**

 **Somewhat similar to the first one. Maybe I'll try and combine them...**


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